Before She Disappeared(4)

He grunts at that. We both resume drying. From what I’ve dug up, a significant portion of Mattapan’s population, being from the Caribbean, speaks French, French Creole, patois, et cetera. But I hear none of that in Stoney’s voice. He has the clipped tones of most New Englanders. Maybe he’s lived in Boston his entire life or moved here from New York or Philadelphia to open his own place. It’s always dangerous to make assumptions, and yet nearly impossible not to.

“Friend of Bill’s,” I volunteer after we finish the whiskey glasses and that tray is replaced with dozens of shot glasses. We both get back to work. Quick, brisk, thoughtless. The perfect meditative exercise.

Stoney doesn’t answer. He dries faster than me, but not by much.

“Water glasses?” I ask when the shot glasses are done.

He raises a brow. So, not an establishment big on nonalcoholic beverages. Good to know.

“You have a room to rent,” I continue, folding my arms on the heavily lacquered bar.

“Go home.”

“Don’t have one. So this is what I’m thinking. I work for you four nights a week, three p.m. to closing, in return for free board.”

Stoney is a man who can communicate volumes with a single eyebrow.

“You’re worried that I’m white,” I fill in for him. “Or that I’m female. Or both. You think I can’t handle myself.”

“I’m a local business. Frequented by locals. You’re not local.”

I make a show of twisting around on the barstool. “Funny, because I don’t see too many locals lined up for the open position. And you’ve been advertising for two weeks. Room’s been vacant even longer than that, which must mean something given how desperate everyone around here is for housing.” I regard him curiously. “Did someone die up there or something?”

He shakes his head. With no more glasses to dry, he crosses his arms over his chest and looks me straight on. He still doesn’t say a word.

“I work hard.” I tick off a finger. “I’m on time, especially because I’m going to be living upstairs, and I won’t siphon your booze. I pour fast, I know how to change out a keg, and I’m an excellent listener. Everyone likes a good listener.”

“They won’t like you.”

“Neither did you, but you’re coming around. Give me a month. By then, no one will notice my white skin or superior gender. I’ll just be another fixture behind the bar.”

He raises another eyebrow but doesn’t say no. Finally: “Why are you here? Plenty of other neighborhoods in Boston.”

“I have something to do here.”

He stares at me again.

I hold his gaze. I like Stoney. A survivor. He’s my kind of person—and sooner or later, he’ll come to see the same about me.

“Five nights a week,” he says. “Three p.m. to close.”

“Rent includes utilities,” I counter. “One free meal a day. I keep my tips.”

He regards me a moment longer, then abruptly extends his hand. We shake. Definitely my kind of person.

“Room comes with a roommate,” Stoney informs me.

“That wasn’t in the ad.”

“Now you know.”

“Male or female?”

“Feline.”

“The room comes with a cat? And that’s why no one will take it?”

For the first time, Stoney smiles. It wrinkles his salt-and-pepper beard, softens his weathered face. “You haven’t met the cat yet.”



* * *



— Stoney leads me upstairs. At first glance, the tiny, single-room setup is exactly what I’d expect from an apartment in an overcrowded, economically depressed neighborhood. Double bed shoved against the far wall. Lone nightstand to one side, tightly drawn black curtains on the other. A metal rod bolted to the wall serves as a closet opposite the bed, while next to the front door is a small kitchenette with a European-size fridge and a microwave. No oven, but a coffeemaker and a hot pot, which suits me fine. On the other side of the door is a plain white curtain wrapped around a curved rod attached to the ceiling, much like a hospital room setup. A quick look behind the curtain reveals a bathroom with the world’s skinniest standing shower and a minuscule mounted sink. Again, City Living 101. Not much space or privacy, but priced right.

Not to mention, the room is unerringly clean, while the bed is topped with a surprising colorful handmade quilt. Again, there’s more to Stoney then meets the eye.

I glance around. “Where’s my roommate?”

“She’s not social.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Piper.”

“And this is her room?”

He shrugs. “Suits her.”

I’m still not sure what to make of this. In theory I like cats. But Stoney’s words of warning have made me cautious. I wheel my bag to the center of the creaking old floor, then pause.

I bend over, carefully lift the quilt, and peer under the bed.

It takes me a moment, then I spy a pair of glowing green eyes regarding me balefully from the far corner. It’s too dark to make out her build or coloring. I have more an impression of pure hostility.

“Piper,” I acknowledge.

She flattens her ears and growls low in her throat, followed by a distinct hiss. I take the hint, drop the quilt.